


Of Kings and Coral

by unitlost



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Arthur learns to not be a jerk, Francis is stuck on that ride, I'll fix the tags as needed to make more sense and be more effective, M/M, Mermaid!France, Minor Character Death, No canon characters die, Non-Graphic Violence, Slow Burn, and then not a mermaid anymore!France, hetabang, i don't speak french, mild themes of human (mermaid) research, unspecified medieval/renaissance time period
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:47:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24158356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unitlost/pseuds/unitlost
Summary: Arthur, crown prince of Castelshire, and desperate to get his foot into magical-scientific relevance, received word that a mermaid had been caught off the shores of France.This was no ordinary magical beast; mermaids were especially elusive, still considered a myth by many.  For one to be in Castelshire of all places was a rare occurrence he couldn't possible miss out on.He got much more than he bargained for when he made the journey to the harbor that day.(Part of Hetabang 2020, #bringbackhetalia2020)
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter 1

It was said that if one descended from the cliffs upon which Basrig Castle rests and into the surrounding woods, they could never return to the peak.

Some claimed it was a curse set upon the people of Castelshire generations ago by a vengeful witch. Others spun tales of ruthless creatures who would tear any wandering traveler to shreds. Some even whispered that the land itself was evil, holding her children close like a suffocating mother.

Arthur chalked it up to a lack of decent roads as he made the so-called “impossible journey” for the third time that month.

The coastal village was a splash of color on the otherwise dull landscape painted with acre after acre of trees and brush. Wet leaves turned into crunchy gravel on its outskirts. The endless cacophony of insects and clashing birdsong softened into a lull of carriage wheels and distant crashing of waves. A local hurriedly offered a bow when they saw him walk by.

If he strained his ears, he could pick up on the local gossip as well. This and that about a wedding gone amuck; this and that about a rebellion put down, some assassination attempt against the king. Such matters didn’t interest him very much--His Majesty was in very safe hands, he would know--but it felt nice to know what rattled the commonfolk’s feathers.

All of this, Arthur thought, was reason enough to love such a village. He scanned the russet-colored roofs for the one with the most seagulls--a telltale sign of the fish market. A few blocks, probably a twenty-minute stroll. He set off in that direction, making a note to run his usual personal errands along the way.

A pinch of black cumin seeds from an overpriced visiting trader.

Some sweets to stash away for later.

A thick fur liner for his slippers.

Ragwort and abandoned fairy houses.

“You’re early today, Your Highness,” came the greeting from the back of the shop.

Arthur hummed, scanning the dried herbs and runestones that lined the shelves. “I had something to do. Couldn’t wait to get started, I suppose.”

Lucian’s petite figure emerged, parcel in hand. “Are you here for the,” he prompted, blood-red eyes giving away the answer he already knew.

Such eyes would have normally been immediate grounds for a public execution, but Lucian had run the “Trinkets and Natural Cures” shop in the far corner of town for as long as Arthur could remember. He smiled through the inevitable jokes about it being a witchcraft shop in good humor. Capitalizing on an unfair curse, he would say. The village would be foolish to kill off one of its most unique attractions.

Jokes aside, it really was a witchcraft shop, and Arthur was amazed that nobody had seen through a coverup as obvious as “trinkets and natural cures.”

Trinkets was, by far, Arthur’s favorite place in the village, and the only one worth spending any time in. It was the best place to get rare ingredients and experimental potion recipes. Lucian was one of the few subjects that Arthur could rely on to hear the village gossip he actually cared about; what was an act of God, and what was most definitely a hex? What would be in shortage soon? Had any great beasts been sighted recently?

A mermaid. A mermaid had been sighted.

Arthur returned the knowing stare with his own, and Lucian laughed.

“Two days. It only took two days for word to reach you.” He shook his head. “I had been betting on a week at least. I guess I owe Lukas today’s wages, then.”

“I should have your heads for betting on me,” Arthur chuckled, tapping on a basket of sandalwood. Lucian tucked some into the parcel. A bribe to let him live, he teased.

“Ah, but it is a shame. You are going to purchase it, I don’t doubt. Hole it up in that giant castle and never let another set of eyes gaze upon it. It will be a great loss for the rest of us.”

“You’re always welcome to come up and see it.”

“Your father would  _ actually _ have my head if he saw me on castle grounds,” Lucian hummed. He scribbled up a receipt.

Arthur tossed a handful of coin onto the counter. “Your loss. I’ll be sure to come back with a full report on what I’ve learned.”

He barely heard Lucian’s retort of “A scholar among us!” before the rotting door swung loosely shut. He tucked the parcel under the furs he had purchased earlier and finally made a beeline for the harbor.

The crowd thickened noticeably as he neared one of the docks, so entranced by the spectacle on the other side that they barely registered to step aside for their crown prince. He twisted his body to fit through whatever gaps were available, holding his goods close so as to not lose them. There were moments where he had no choice but to screw his eyes closed and force his way through a group.

Closely-packed bodies eventually gave way to the dock itself, in the center of which was a wooden basin enclosed in an iron cage. Arthur steadied himself and opened his eyes, and he immediately felt his breath hitch.

The figure on display was most certainly a mermaid.

Upon finally seeing one, “great beast” didn’t seem like a fitting description for such a creature. Even with damp hair that stuck together in clumps and the unmistakable scent of saltwater and seaweed, the sight in front of him was nothing short of stunning. He was lithe and young, with golden curls that rested just above his shoulders. Gills ran down his ribcage, a dark contrast on his lighter skin. He could see webbing between each finger, and blue fins that looked both sharp and fragile lined his arms, back, and ears; while he couldn’t see the tail, Arthur assumed its tip looked quite similar. Iris-colored eyes met his for a moment, a brief shine of curiosity in them before fizzling back into despondency.

“A beauty, isn’t he, Your Highness?” A hand clasped his shoulder, and Arthur jumped at the sudden presence. “Caught ‘im off the shores of Calais, we did. Brought in his fair share of coin already just by being here. The lads plan to tour him around. Who knows how much gold we could bring in if--”

“That won’t be necessary,” Arthur interrupted, prying the hand off of him with a grimace. “I’ve come here to take it off your hands."

The sailor started. “With… with all due respect, Your Highness, this isn’t your old run-of-the-mill sardine. I don’t know if I can--”

Arthur held a silk pouch under the man’s nose, shaking it a bit to allow the weight of the coins inside to be heard. “I don’t remember asking. I’ll be taking this special sardine off your hands. Pray tell, will this be enough.”

The sailor stared at the coin being thrust upon him for a long moment, before snatching it out of the prince’s hand and pocketing it. “More than enough, Your Highness. Thank you for your patronage.”

“Call for a carriage. I can’t possibly wheel him up the mountain.” He dismissed the sailor with a wave.

“Yes, right away, Your Highness,” he bowed, before turning to the crowd. “Alright, clear the way! Go home! You’ve seen enough!”

After its fair share of protest, the crowd dissipated, leaving Arthur and his newly-acquired mermaid alone on the docks. The mermaid glanced around, most likely wondering why everyone had left so suddenly.

“Don’t look so downtrodden; there are certainly much worse fates for a magnificent creature such as you,” he chuckled, feeling the uneven surface of the metal bars.

The mermaid flinched as he approached. “Je ne vous comprends pas.”

Arthur paused, and then rolled his eyes. Of course. French. “The coast of Calais, huh? I guess that’s to be expected. Do you really not understand a word I’m saying?” The mermaid offered only silence, which was as good a confirmation as any. “Well, we can fix that soon enough. There are countless books in the royal library; some of them must be suitable for teaching you English. Do they speak French on the ocean floor everywhere, or only in the Channel? Are there English-speaking merfolk as well? You’ll have to pardon me. This is all incredibly exciting; it’s so rare for me to be able to do real research in the field of magic.”

“Votre conversation à moi ne me fera pas vous comprendre.”

“And such a melodic voice as well. I’m sure it will sound absolutely lovely in our language.”

“Tu as l'air impoli.”

“We’ll start on your English lessons right away. I can’t wait to speak with you. You sound so polite. So classy.”

“S'il te plaît ferme ta bouche.”

Arthur paused in his chatter to tell the mermaid to stop interrupting, but his uneven stare challenged him to speak. He really did seem confused and distressed about what was going to happen to him, and for a brief moment Arthur felt pity for him. “It won’t be so bad,” he encouraged, lowering his voice. “The castle is a very nice place to live.”

The mermaid’s stare didn’t falter.

Arthur pointed at himself and firmly stated, “Arthur.”

The stare shifted into a questioning one, before it seemed to click and he understood. The mermaid pointed at him as well. “Arthur?”

Ah, what a beautiful accent. Arthur wished to hear it more. He nodded with a smile. “Arthur.” Then he pointed at the mermaid.

He hesitated, before also pointing at himself and slowly offering, “Francis?”

“Francis!” Arthur clapped, making Francis flinch at the noise. “Lovely, we’ve made first contact.”

Two sets of hooves could be heard rounding the corner, accompanied by the returning chatter of sailors. Arthur turned to see his promised carriage. A bit bland for his liking, but the horses looked strong and it would get the job done.

“Ah, and here we are!”

A few of the crewmen unhinged and collapsed the cage. Arthur stood back, not wanting to be in the way and not enjoying the deafening ring of metal on metal.

Francis quickly looked between the prince and the sailors, a little hope and a lot of confusion evident on his face. A shriek escaped his lips as the sailors picked him up, basin and all. His gaze landed on the shore to the east of them, and he seemed to lean his body in that direction, before he realized with another shriek that he was being carried west.

“You’ll love the view from the cliffs,” Arthur reassured Francis, as he tried his best to ignore the tears silently streaming down the other’s already wet face.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next two chapters have mild themes of experiments, in which Arthur delves into magical science. There is nothing graphic, but if further tags need to be added please let me know!

Francis had learned English quickly, considering Arthur had no teaching experience and opted against allowing a tutor to come near his newest treasure. He could hold a decent conversation, only slipping into French when he got excited or didn’t know how to express himself. Arthur wasn’t sure if it was a mermaid’s capacity for fast learning or Francis himself being a quick learner.

Arthur learned just as much, if not more. Anything he could hope to know about mermaids, if Francis could explain or display it, Arthur would jot down in one of his notebooks. He often came by with a stack of notebooks, filling up more than one in a single visit.

Today, he had opted to leave the books in his own room. Loath as he was to admit it, Francis was an interesting person, fishiness aside.

He had a penchant for banter, and often hummed to fill the silence. When Arthur asked about it, the mermaid had explained that he still was not used to the relative silence of the air above the surface. Humming brought a familiar comfort. Arthur found the sound pleasant, so he didn’t complain.

“The sounds travel different underwater, though.” Francis pushed his hair out of his face, but it fell back into place. “I like how it’s different. It sounds different on my ears.”

Arthur marveled for what was not the first time about how perfect the mermaid’s hair was, reaching up to feel his own rough split ends between his fingers. “Is that so?”

“You have been touching your hair a lot, Arthur,” Francis noted. “What, are you jealous?”

Arthur sputtered. “I am  _ not _ jealous of your hair, you… you! It’s probably slimy and full of salt.”

“You’re right about the salt, but I promise that my hair is silky smooth. No slime.”

Arthur willed himself to not punch the smirk off his face. “Oh,  _ my apologies, your most beautiful grace _ .”

“What a gentleman,” Francis deadpanned. He looked up at the prince standing before him. “Would you like to touch it?”

A light pink dusted Arthur’s cheeks at the thought of touching mermaid’s hair. “No.”

“Good, because I wasn’t going to let you.”

Arthur tripped over his own words again, and Francis laughed at his misery. He shifted in the metal tub he was provided as a servant changed the water. Francis didn’t need water to breathe, Arthur had observed; he had lungs as well as gills. However, running water was necessary for his body to maintain homeostasis. The castle lacked anything like a stream, so regular water changes were necessary to keep the basin fresh and bearable.

The room itself was a repurposed lord’s chambers, with the central table moved out to make room for the tub. Like most of the rooms in the castle, Arthur’s aside, it was sparsely furnished--a bed that Francis couldn’t use on the west wall, a dresser of clothes Francis couldn’t wear next to a low desk he couldn’t use on the south wall. Imported carpets hung on each wall, save for the east, which narrowed out into a single window.

“Would you move me to the window?”

Arthur nodded, and the servant wheeled the tub over to the tower window.

Francis leaned his arms over the ledge, feeling the wind brush against his fingers. “It’s going to storm soon,” he hummed. “From the north. A cold storm.”

Arthur didn’t question his statement. In the three months that he had been here, Francis had not once been wrong about the weather. Mermaids were keen on sensing natural disasters. Storms were the lower boundary of his instincts. “I’ll tell Father to lock up the stables.”

The mermaid hummed. “Do you get bored? Alone, in this castle.”

Arthur studied his face, but it gave no clues as to what he may have been thinking. Francis had tried on multiple occasions to convince Arthur to bring him back to the shore, and on multiple occasions Arthur had almost given in. He was good, Francis, at picking up on Arthur’s buttons and how to best push them. A mermaid’s natural charm was frightening, for sure.

“I’m not alone,” he finally said after a long while. “I go to town every now and again, you know that. Plus, my father is here. As are you.”

“Thrilling company, I’m sure. Your father is about as interesting as a bale of hay.”

“He has a lot to worry about. Concerns that will be mine one day. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

Francis tore his gaze away from the window. “You’re to be king one day?”

“Sooner rather than later,” Arthur puffed his chest out a bit, quickly deflating it though once he heard the beginnings of Francis’ snort. “Father plans to abdicate in my favor.”

“Sounds like a lot of responsibility.”

Arthur hummed. “Not particularly. Well, not more than I can handle. Aside from a ceremony where I have to place my hand over my heart--” he demonstrated, placing his left hand over his right pectoral, “--and recite a symbolic oath--”

“Wait,” Francis interrupted. “Are human hearts not on the left side?”

“Most are,” Arthur nodded, “but mine is on the right. Sign of a true magic user, Mother used to tell me. Something about a magical center.”

Francis made a sound of understanding.

“Alright, lovely. Well, like I said, aside from that ceremony, things won’t be too difficult. Why, I’ll have the best advisors in the kingdom to steer my decisions, and in the end the final say is mine so there isn’t anything to worry about. In short, being king means that I no longer have to jump through hoops to get things done. I will be the highest, only looking down.”

“Oh, how fancy,  _ Your Majesty _ .” Francis imitated a bow as best as he could with the lower body of a fish.

Arthur yanked on his permanently damp locks. “Coming from you, it sounds like a curse!”

“Ow, hey, I said you could not touch my hair!”

Arthur let go, and the two let a silence fall over them, daring the other to say something.

Francis was the one who gave in. “I suppose you will be even busier than before, then.”

“That’s to be expected, yes.”

Throwing his hand over his forehead, Francis slumped back into the tub in a dramatic flair. “Oh, but I am so lonely already! What will I do when my only company is too busy for me?”

Arthur blinked. Francis was lonely? But he was here at least once a day.

Once again sensing the mood with frightening accuracy, he elaborated. “Yes, you are around, but there are times when I simply must talk, and no matter how much I call for you,” he punctuated with a deep sigh, “you are not in earshot.”

“Well,” Arthur cleared his throat, glancing back at the door. “I can see if I can move my chambers within earshot.”

The prince willed himself to ignore the pink that dusted the bridge of his nose, but it was hard with the mermaid openly mocking it.

\--

Arthur was able to have a second bedroom, across the hall from his mermaid’s chamber, built with only minimal protest from his father. It was important to keep an eye on him, he reasoned with himself again. Make sure he was in good health and not getting any funny ideas of escape. Be available at a moment’s notice and never miss the smallest piece of information.

He carried another pile of books up from the dungeon to his old room, now being renovated into a new ritual room. He was glad to have another place to practice new magic without the rats and the stuffy air and the noisy prison chatter. Why the castle hadn’t eliminated those problems yet, he wasn’t sure.

Regardless, he was moving out of the bowels of Basrig, so it was no longer an inconvenience to him.

Nodding at a pair of servants struggling to carry an armoire of his to the tower stairs and pulling the rug out from under them with his feet, he turned into his old room and set the stack of books onto the center table. Organizing was not at all something he was used to doing, but he would rather spend the rest of his life in exile than allow someone to touch his tools for magic. He found some aspects of it more tedious than others; adjusting his ingredient jars for the change in light and humidity was a pain, but he rather enjoyed arranging and cataloguing his books.

There were old spell books that he had completely forgotten about--some that he had never opened before, leave it to him to buy books for the sake of buying them--that he now arranged by subject and name. Simple warding charms, high-risk potions, foreign theories, each one had its own shelf on one of the many bookcases he had installed.

Lucian’s seal rested on the inside cover of quite a few of the books, making those a bit wider and a bit harder to fit into place. Deciding to handle those books first when possible, he wondered if it was high time to behead his friend as he picked up a collection of manuscripts.

His eye almost missed the book underneath, boasting its title in faded golden letters.

_ Magic in the Marine World; Dichotomy of the Beasts of the Sea and Their Magical Properties _

Arthur hadn’t thought that the creatures dwelling in their waters were confirmed, much less examined. There was no author listed, unsurprisingly, and Arthur sighed, bitter that his field was not as revolutionary as he had thought.

It would do him well to peruse the book’s contents, he decided, and he needed a break from the dust that came with moving ancient spell anthologies.

Lighting a few candles to facilitate his eyesight, he settled down into a chair and scanned the book for any mentions of mermaids and similar beasts.

_ The global population of kraken seems to be capped off at two, as they are incapable of breeding. Given the size and destructive capabilities of these creatures, it is a gift from God that they have been restricted to the far north with no reproductive-- _

_ Experts disagree as to what the exact conditions are for a selkie to be able to take human form, but some interval of seven is-- _

_ When traveling the southern seas, especially around the Holy Land, extreme care must be taken to avoid the Leviathan, measuring at least 100 leagues and boiling all of its surroundings-- _

_ Mermaids, thought to be a Western variation of sirens, show polymorphism in their lower bodies. Single tails are the most common, but double fishtails have been reported, as well as finless tails more closely representing a serpent. _

Ah, here we go. Arthur folded in the bottom corner of the mermaid chapter to mark his place and dove into the introduction.

Most of the information listed was physical in nature--the size of mermaids, reported tail patterns, common sighting locations--while behavioral details were noticeably lacking. It seemed he may make a breakthrough yet.

The chapter was short, as mermaids were incredibly elusive (most sea beasts were), only offering information that Arthur had more or less already heard from Francis or had inferred himself.

_ Mermaid tails trend towards vibrant color displays. Are they warning of a toxin, or do they have very few natural predators and no reason for camouflage? _

_ Mermaids have been spotted eating fowl, but will refuse offerings of fish and dove. _

_ Freshwater mermaids, called ceasg, have been reported in Scotland, but very little is known about the differences between them and saltwater mermaids. _

All interesting tidbits to say the least, but very little of it was new, and even less of it was useful to him, save for the fact that mermaids were supposedly able to adjust aspects of their physical appearance at will. He had all but given up hope on the book having not wasted his time when he spotted, in the margins of the last page, an annotation from the book’s previous owner.

_ Mermaid to human? Transform--keep out of water.  _ _ Two  _ _ Three ½ months, only allow to drink.  _ _ Will cause extreme discomfort to _ _ Gradually wean off water, not all at once _

\--

A few days after discovering the book on sealife, Arthur brought Francis a spool of silk thread.

“We spend a lot of time making handicrafts in my kingdom,” Francis explained when he was asked about his intentions. “I was growing homesick, but I thought this would be easier than convincing you to toss me back into the sea.” He started twisting the string into an elaborate base pattern that Arthur had trouble following. “We attend classes, tutors? Is that the English word? Where we’re taught this sort of thing.”

So tutors exist in the sea in a similar manner to on land. “What would you make?”

“Would?” Francis echoed. “Well, I suppose I am growing too old for lessons. Mostly jewelry and practical materials like ink. We value being self-sufficient in a pinch.”

Arthur scribbled the information down in his notes. “I see. That’s admirable I guess, although here it is more of a sign of status if you have others to do such things for you.”

“I’ve noticed.” He shifted in his tub, and Arthur called the attendant over to change the water. With a nonverbal cue, the servant allowed the water level to rest lower than usual.

Francis blinked. “Is there no more water to be added?”

“Ah, well, you see,” Arthur began, searching his brain for a reasonable coverup explanation. “A drought season is coming soon--”

“In Great Britain?”

“Shut up, like you would know!” Nevermind a mermaid’s disaster sense, but he prayed that droughts didn’t quite qualify as a disaster. “It’s nigh impossible to bring seawater up here, and we need to preserve all the drinking water we can. I thought it was in our best interests to get you used to a shortage should such an occasion arise.”

Francis flexed his tail with a frown, poking his arm into the water and seeing it only reach just above his elbow. Whatever protests were on his mind, though, he didn’t voice, instead opting to change the subject. “Would you move me to the window?”

Arthur complied.

“It is still amazing to me how high up we are. The sea looks so far away.”

“It is.” Arthur made his way to Francis’ side, peering down at the stone walls cascading down below them. “It’s a couple hours on foot to get through the woods, and a bit more time after that to cross the village.”

Francis hummed. “Is the water as vast to you as the land is to me?”

Arthur wrote down some more notes. “I wouldn’t know, given that I’ve never been.”

“I’ll take you, then!” The mermaid nodded firmly. “When I am back home, you can come down and I will show you around. I am sure you could make up something to let you breathe with those funny potions you brew.”

Arthur kept his gaze fixed on the horizon, not daring to meet whatever hopeful look Francis was giving him. He still didn’t seem to understand, and no matter how many fleeting moments of pity washed over the prince, he never had it in him to clarify the situation.

He knew that the truth would most likely break the mermaid’s heart, maybe make him grow resentful towards Arthur. That wouldn’t do at all. Arthur’s research couldn’t progress smoothly with an uncooperative subject.

A part of Arthur simply didn’t want Francis to hate him.

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” was what he settled on.

“Nonsense! We would love to have you. My  fiancée and you would get along very well, I think.”

Arthur swallowed. “A  fiancée ?”

“Yes!” Arthur could feel Francis’ smile without looking at him. A poor, poor smile filled with a light that Arthur was only postponing the extinguishing of. “She is a lot like you. Smart. And very confident. She is not afraid to say what is on her mind. You would like her.”

Not afraid to say what was on his mind, indeed. “She sounds lovely,” Arthur offered, once more leaving that discussion for another day.

“She is,” Francis sighed, leaning on the windowsill. This time, neither of them felt any need to continue the conversation further.

After an eternity of silence, Arthur heard Francis whisper to himself, “A disaster is coming.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Francis is having a bad time in this chapter. The same warnings as last chapter apply here.

It hurt.

Everything hurt.

Francis’ grasp around his sides tightened further than he thought possible, as his gills shrieked for some water, any water, to rush over him.

The basin was empty.

He felt like he was being dried up and ripped in half.

He begged Arthur to replace the water in the basin more often, give him more, make an exception, he’d be fine in the case of a drought, just please give him some water. Arthur would always solemnly but firmly reply that he couldn’t risk the palace dehydrating before handing Francis a goblet of water to drink. On the rare occasions that Arthur didn’t stick around to talk, he would dump the small amount over himself, a miniscule release from the agony he felt.

His body would absorb it immediately, like the roots of a plant potted in dust.

Arthur had had shutters installed on the windows in the room. The near-constant drone of rain hitting the wood made him want to tear his ears off, or Arthur’s ears, anyone’s ears, really.

“You’ll dry up in an instant,” he falsely warned. “The sun is incredibly hot nowadays. It’ll be safer if we block out outside light for now.

He considered dragging himself to the window and forcing the shutters open. Jumping out of this damn tower that he had once thought was a curious lodge but now understood was his final prison. If he aimed well enough and flung hard enough he could safely land in the moat below.

Or he could miss and die. At this point, either option was good enough.

It was useless, though. Without the bench in the basin, Francis wouldn’t be able to reach the window at all, much less hoist himself over it.

All he could do was wait for Arthur to get bored of his cruel games or to take pity on him.

Arthur’s visits grew more and more frequent, yet at the same time more and more scripted. He asked how Francis was feeling. Francis lied, saying he was fine. Arthur knew he was lying to save face. He could see it in the human’s smile.

That was fine; Francis knew everything Arthur had ever said to him was a lie.

Three months, almost four, passed in the deafening silence of his chamber. The only relief from the quiet came in Arthur’s voice and the rain that wouldn’t shut up. He used to hum to fill the empty space, but his throat had long since dried up.

Arthur had actually barged in to check on him when he noticed the lack of soft music coming from the mermaid’s throat. “I thought something was seriously wrong; you’ve always spent your time humming,” he said. “Are you alright?”

Francis hated the twinge in his chest when Arthur seemed genuinely concerned for him, remembered that he loved to hum. He could only cough in response.

Arthur didn’t bring him any water.

His tail felt like it was splitting. It felt like it was rapidly breaking itself into a million pieces and putting itself back together incorrectly. He felt disgusting. It was disgusting. Stupid, disgusting, malignant tissue doing whatever it felt like.

His webbing receded, and it felt like needles were jabbed between every finger.

His ears felt like they were bleeding, and he didn’t dare to check if they actually were, or if it was a hallucination from the torture of the rain that fought against the shutters to get in, calling out to him and never stopping, loud and rhythmic and  _ shut up, already _ .

The rain was replaced by a ringing, and he curled in on himself, watching scales slip off of him one by one.

The next thing he knew, he was on the ground, the basin having been knocked over in his panic.

Arthur once again barged in at the unexpected noise--that’s all that could attract him, Francis supposed--mouth open to say something. The words seemed to catch in his throat, however, and all he could do was stare.

Francis thought it must have been quite a sight. A mermaid, on the floor of a castle hundreds of feet above sea level, on his  _ knees, mermaids don’t have knees _ , clutching what had once been his tail but was now a thin layer of dead skin. Shedded, like snake skin, revealing the overly sensitive legs that had unbeknownst to him grown beneath it.

Arthur slowly closed his mouth, muttering a soft, “Oh my Lord.”

Francis looked up at him in desperation, anguish, fury, some mix of all three. He was sobbing, or he would have been if there was a drop of water in him to spare. Instead, all he could do was heave, making ugly sounds in the back of his throat and fighting the urge to vomit.

“Ah, don’t move, I’ll get a chair!” Arthur suddenly sprang into action, rushing out of the room to his own across the hall.

Francis wished for himself to wake up, to open his eyes and be sunbathing on a rock on the Calais coast. For his tail to be a tail and not a lump of  _ death _ in his hands. For his legs to not exist, never have existed. For Castelshire to not exist. For Arthur to not exist.

Arthur existed, though, and he brought a softly cushioned chair into Francis’ room. He helped Francis up, and as much as he wanted to push the prince, the  _ liar, traitor _ , away, he couldn’t stand at all without him, and so Francis let himself be led to the chair placed by the window.

With shaky hands, Francis shoved the shutters open, letting the outside in after three months of isolation from it, ready to douse himself in the rain as it torrented down.

There was no rain. In Francis’ dismay, he had failed to notice that the hammer of droplets had stopped.

“You, ah, you might want to put these on,” Arthur muttered after a while of watching Francis’ twisted grimace. He gently pushed a bundle of clothes into his trembling hands--braies, chausses, some trousers and an ungodly amount of shirts.

Francis didn’t think it mattered, what did it matter if he was dressed or naked, but he didn’t fight back as Arthur helped him piece together the puzzle that was a human outfit.

“To be completely honest,” Arthur chirped, “I had my doubts as to if this would work, or if it was a load of hodgepodge. I only had a handful of handwritten notes--can you believe it? Handwritten notes!--to follow, and they were so incredibly vague. I had to make a few adjustments and inferences based on what you had told me about your kind.”

Francis let out what would have been a sharp laugh, if his throat was capable of producing such sounds.

“Ah, that’s right, you must be incredibly thirsty!” The prince vanished into the hallway again.

Francis looked down at himself, pulling at the collar of his shirt as he tried to stop it from choking him so much. Did humans need to wear such tight layers? 

He loosened what felt like a thousand buttons, jumping when he heard Arthur tsk behind him. “Now there, I just gave you such lovely clothes and you’re already moving to take them off?” 

He handed Francis a full pitcher of water. Francis drank a few sips of it before dumping the rest over himself, leading to more sputtering from Arthur.

“Those are expensive, I’ll have you know! As are my clothes; ugh, this is a new frock. If the dye runs I’ll have you thrown off the cliffs!” Arthur brushed off his trousers and his composure, taking a deep breath. “Well, I suppose this  _ is _ quite the adjustment to make. You can spare yourself some of the layers if they’re that uncomfortable.”

“I’m,” Francis managed to rasp, cut off by the hundreds of things he wanted to say at once. 

_ I’m a freak. I’m afraid. I’m never going to see anyone again. I’m going to kill you. _

“Devilishly handsome for a human? Thoroughly impressed? Yes, I understand completely. I feel quite the same way myself. Look, you already don’t reek so much of salt! That’s an improvement in itself, if I may say so. And now that this whole experiment business is done, we can move past all the formalities and interview sessions. It was a hassle, keeping most everyone away from this part of the castle. The servants are a sympathetic bunch, you know; I couldn’t risk them compromising the trial by sneaking you water.

“I had to handle quite a lot on my own, which, as a prince, is not usually in my schedule. How the servants balance trays of food going up those uneven stairs, I’ll never know. It’ll be so nice to get back to only needing to worry about studying. I imagine you would enjoy such a carefree life as well. There’s plenty of potions and hexes that I have yet to try--of course, I doubt there’s one that would reverse all of this,” Arthur gestured vaguely at Francis, “but one can do so much with just a little magic and the right herbs. Perhaps we could start with something simple, like--”

Francis wasn’t listening to Arthur anymore.

He took everything. Francis could never go home. He would drown if he went home.

His family. His home. His fianc é e.

He took it all away.

For a sick curiosity, Arthur took everything away from him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: There is a murder, and a death that comes from that murder, in this chapter. No canon characters are harmed. There is no graphic detail.

Sneak into the chamber, do it, get out of there.

Sneak into the chamber, do it, get out of there.

Francis clutched his arms tighter around himself under the forest-colored cloak that he had swiped from Arthur’s bedroom as he repeated that mantra to himself. His legs wobbled, still unused to moving on dry land. It was fine, though. He just needed to sneak into the chamber, do it, and get out of there. What happened after that was irrelevant.

He knocked soundly on the deep red double doors, like he had watched Arthur do from the shadows of the stairwell. Willing himself to not break out into a sweat, he rocked back on his heels and almost stumbled backwards as a result.

“Enter,” a gruff voice sounded from the other side of the door.

Francis glanced into a mounted shield to check his reflection one last time. A mop of stiff hair and moss green eyes stared back at him. He took a deep breath, hoping that Arthur’s own quick temper and hyperactive blood would be able to write off his flush, and pushed through the doors to the throne room.

The room was far brighter than any other he had been to in the castle, and he had to force himself to not shield his eyes. Candle-filled chandeliers hung from various points of the ceiling, illuminating the marble floor, empty aside from the red carpet leading from the door to the thrones. Franics silently thanked the carpet for offering him a steady foothold.

“Arthur, my son,” the king greeted. “Come closer, come closer. I was just going over some proposals from the council.”

Francis took a step with each breath, using the steady pace to stop himself from either hyperventilating or moving too quickly. The 30 meters of carpet ended in a fully carpeted, raised platform, separated from the rest of the floor by 6 shallow steps. Two thrones towered over everything else in the room, simple and wooden but plush in their cushioning. The one on the right sat dusty with underuse; Francis assumed it must have been that of the late queen, Arthur’s mother.

The king sat in the other, eyes shining with warmth and inquisition. His features were gruff and stiff, but Francis found them welcoming at the same time. As the castle was closed to visitors at the time, he was modestly dressed--for a king, at least--forsaking any crowns and capes that were so common in the books Arthur had lent Francis. He still held the air of a king, however, and Francis could almost feel the difference in status between them like a tangible barrier.

Francis nodded to the king in greeting, conscious that he had been able to adjust his outward appearance to resemble Arthur, but that ability didn’t extend to his voice.

He had snuck into the chamber, detected as Arthur but undetected as Francis.

“Cat got your tongue, my boy?” the king chuckled, a deep sound from his stomach. “I understand; this is a big week for you. You’ve finished memorizing your oath, I hope? You won’t be able to have any reference during the official ceremony.”

That’s right, Arthur’s coronation ceremony was the next day. The king was going to abdicate in favor of his son. Francis took one last steely breath. If he didn’t do this now, there would be no point.

“I have.” He tried to imitate Arthur’s voice, lower and further back than Francis’ own, but it came out gravely. He masked it with a cough.

The king frowned. “The only thing you’ve done is worn down your throat! How do you expect to speak in front of a crowd the size we expect if you can barely raise your voice?”

Francis let out a sigh of relief. As long as he kept up this terrible impression of Arthur slash perfect impression of a plague-ridden man, he may be able to avoid suspicion. He coughed into his hand a few more times, grimacing at the warmth on his palm. “I just need some tea,” he offered, “and I’ll be good as rain.”

“Good as rain?” the king echoed, looking at his son like he was some sort of sea monster.

“Right!” Francis asserted, before he heard his own mistake and immediately corrected, “as rain! Right as rain.”

The king eyed him for a second longer, then let out a good-humored snort. “That nervous, are you, my boy? Come up here so I can give you a what-for.”

Francis complied, and the king gave him a hearty smack on the back. Francis nearly lurched forward with the force. “You won’t be a strong king if you let a mere ceremony work you up like this. A ruler, no, a  _ man _ needs to be confident. He needs to keep his spirits up and his stress down. You have the spirit, Arthur. You just lack the focus, what with your concoctions and magic nonsense.”

Possible responses to every word sent his way rolled in Francis’ mind. What would Arthur say to this? Probably something politely rude. No, this was his father; Arthur had shown nothing but respect in the way he spoke about him. “I’ll do my best to balance my duties and my hobbies.”

The king snorted again. “ _ Balance _ , my boy we both know that will never happen; not at this age.” He straightened. “Fear not, though, son. I’m abdicating, not dying.”

Francis swallowed thickly.

“I and all the royal advisors will be here to guide you when your head gets stuck in the clouds.” The king placed a rough hand on his “son’s” shoulder. “You are never alone in this world. The people who care about you the most will be there even in your worst. Remember that, and you’ll grow into a fine man, if not a fine king.”

“A fine man,” Francis echoed, frozen by the warm, mossy eyes so much like the ones he currently donned. He was so much kinder than Arthur’s stories had led Francis to believe. Still a bit boring--all he had spoken about was official royal matters--but here he sounded... present.

Had Arthur been privy to this side of his father? Did he hear these words of advice and encouragement? Or was this a rare moment, spurred on by the importance of the upcoming day. Was this a moment that Francis had stolen away from Arthur, drinking in his father’s pride as if it was Francis’ own?

It didn’t matter, he reminded himself. Arthur deserved no pride or kindness.

“Now then,” the king smoothed out his tunic. “Did you come here for anything in particular, or did you just want to blow off some stress with your old man?”

Francis hugged his arms inside the cloak, running his finger along the engraved handle that rested in the crook of his arm. “There was nothing in particular I wanted to speak about.”

The king nodded. “Well, if that’s all, I still need to finish going over this batch before I relinquish power to you. Just remember,” he put his hand over his heart. “I swear an  _ oath _ to do what is right for my country. You always forget the oath part.”

Francis was running out of time, he realized. If he didn’t do what he set out to do soon, he would be sent away and lose his chance. Arthur would be king tomorrow. It would be too late tomorrow.

He gripped the handle more firmly to once again confirm its presence. Finding it still there, he released it and mirrored his “father’s” movements. “I swear an oath. Yes, I remember.”

The king’s chuckle stopped abruptly, as if it got caught in his throat. His eyes remained trained on Francis’ chest, and Francis followed the gaze down.

Francis’ hand rested on his heart.

On the left side of his chest.

“My boy,” the king hesitated, every word sounding carefully planned, before looking Francis in the eye. “Who are you?”

Francis must have panicked, for he saw white, and the next thing he knew the king was slumping back into his throne, Arthur’s embroidered dagger lodged into his chest. He heard what was supposed to be a shout but got cut off--Francis must have jabbed him in the throat. All air seemed to leave the room, and Francis’ legs gave out, as he too slumped. He sat there, on his knees in front of the limp king of Castelshire, arm raised and still holding the handle.

_ Get out of there. Get out of there. A disaster is coming. _

Francis didn’t hear the back door open, didn’t hear the servant announce their arrival, barely heard their scream as their eyes fell upon the scene. His head snapped to their direction, seeing them trip over their own feet as they stumbled backwards and out the door. “The king!” He heard them shout. “The, the king is…!”

Francis didn’t spare any time to retrieve the dagger, much less check if the job had been finished, and sprinted out the way he came.

\--

“The, the king is dead!” The shout echoed through the halls, reaching even Arthur as he carried the very last box up from the dungeon. He froze. The king? His father? His father was  _ dead? _

He dropped the box, paying no mind to the sound of shattering glass within, and ran towards the throne room. It was impossible. No one was allowed into the castle at this time of the day, and the servants were loyal to a tee, or at least too afraid of the consequences of treason.

But there he was, Arthur’s father, sitting on his throne. It would have been a normal sight, him hunched over himself, as he often did when going over documents, eyesight poor as it was. It would have been a normal sight, if not for the dagger. A silver, engraved dagger that looked very familiar to him.

Yes, it was his own dagger. The dagger that had been gifted to him by the very same man that it had killed.

Voices approached from around the corner. “Are you certain it was him?” A guard, Arthur guessed.

“Yes, I’m sure!” That was the first voice, the one that had announced his father’s death. “I saw him! Prince Arthur himself, dressed in his hunting cloak, stabbed the king!”

_ Prince Arthur himself?  _ Arthur shook his head in disbelief. This didn’t make any sense. Arthur had been in the dungeon. Arthur hadn’t been near his cloak or dagger. And yet Arthur had been seen murdering his own father?

He heard iron-clad footsteps in the distance. Guards. He needed to get out of here. He needed to get Francis and get out of here.

Francis was sitting in Arthur’s study, his research journal in hand. He looked up when he heard the door swing open, offering a tight smile. “You researched me quite thoroughly, didn’t you? I’m very impressed.”

Arthur’s cloak hung on the rack, exactly where he had left it.

“There’s no time for that,” Arthur insisted, grabbing Francis by the arm and pulling him up. “We need to leave.”

Francis didn’t ask why, and Arthur knew that should have been a clear red flag, that he should have left Francis there to be captured and questioned and perhaps even executed. But he had no one else but Francis, so he pulled harder on his arm to get him down the stairs.

And perhaps Francis should have refused to leave, should have testified against Arthur and led them straight to him. But perhaps because he had no one else but Arthur, he let himself be dragged out of the castle and down the wooded path below.

It was said that if one descended from the cliffs upon which Basrig Castle rests and into the surrounding woods, they could never return to the peak.

Arthur made the impossible journey for the last time.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings should apply from here on ^^

There was exactly one path leading from the castle to the village through the woods, which Arthur very quickly veered off of as soon as the cliff was behind them. Though narrow, the woods stretched for miles in the west. It would provide better coverage, and if they stayed on the path the guards would easily find them.

Francis’ legs were still weak and uncertain, and he stumbled often, on both roots and his own feet, so the journey was slowed to a near crawl. Arthur kept a good 20 paces or so in front of him, stopping frequently so that he could catch up. He didn’t know where they were going--Castelshire was a death sentence, he was sure. All he knew was that the further they got from the castle, the safer he and Francis would be.

Francis had said absolutely nothing the entire journey thus far, the only confirmation of his presence being the leaves that crunched under his feet and Arthur’s occasional glances over his shoulder. He looked tired and miserable, and Arthur couldn’t blame him since he felt quite the same. He silently thanked the heavens that he had taken all those trips to the village that now allowed his legs to power through the ache of overuse.

The sun had long since set, but the full moon overhead allowed them to keep going. Arthur couldn’t see the stars through the leaves that were still on the trees, so he could only assume that they were still going west and hadn’t gotten misdirected. As long as the path was nowhere in sight, he figured they were doing well enough.

“How are you doing?” he called behind him. “Do you want to stop for the night?”

Francis didn’t answer, just like he hadn’t answered any of his other attempts to fill the silence.

Arthur stopped and sighed. “Alright, well, I want to stop. It’s quite late, and at this point I’d say we’re good as lost in the eyes of the castle.” He sat against a particularly old tree, its roots stretching up and making for good support.

Francis collapsed next to him, relief at being able to rest his legs obvious on his face.

“I don’t know how long we’ll have to walk. I’m not sure if we’ll even make it out of the woods, to be frank. Ah, that’s not to say that we’re going to die, of course! The woods are perfectly habitable; hermits and travelers make their homes here all the time.”

The prince--ex-prince now, he supposed--looked over at his ever-silent companion. Francis gazed up at the sky, it and his eyes bouncing the moonlight between their shared emptiness.

Francis’ eyes had been far from empty when they had first met. They were certainly not happy, no, they were afraid and lost and angry, but they were far from empty. Now, the blue seemed as deep as ever, but the endless ocean had been replaced by a bottomless pit.

He couldn’t blame Francis anymore, he knew. Even if he had tried to blame Francis, he couldn’t. Arthur understood now; he understood what it meant to lose everything familiar to you in one moment.

He had lost his father, his final memory of him limp in his throne with Arthur’s own dagger lodged in his chest. He would be lying if he said they were particularly close, but they had been far from estranged. And yes, they had little in common, but he mourned the thought that he would never hear about his hunting trips again.

He had lost his future; the kingdom would sooner execute him than allow him to take the throne after supposedly assassinating his own father. He would never get them to believe him, not with the claimed witnesses, not with the weapon. He had always relied on his claim to the throne. Without it, what was he? A simple mage? All of his magical texts and tools were back at the castle. In this moment, Arthur was just a man.

Arthur didn’t know how to be “just a man.”

Was this how Francis felt? Was this how it felt to one moment know who you were and where you belonged, and the next have it all pulled out from under your feet? It was such a terrifying pain that left his stomach feeling as if it was being weighed down by iron.

Would anyone miss him? The servants wouldn’t, he was sure; he had never made their jobs easier. They must have been happy to be rid of him and his pranks. 

Lucian. Would Lucian look for him, or would he write him off? Arthur hadn’t been the kindest to him either. Arthur hadn’t been the kidnest to anyone. Patronage could only get one so far. What was one customer who threatened to cut your head off every now and again?

If his father were alive, would he have missed him?

Arthur realized, with a shuddering breath, that even though he had not been the one to deal the finishing blow, he had whittled his own life to the point where it could be struck down so easily. He hugged his knees, grateful that Francis was too focused on giving him the silent treatment to see him cry.

Deep down, he knew that the only person who would have had access to that knife was Francis, but feeling like this? He couldn’t find any anger to turn towards him.

“Well, we’ll figure out where to go from here in the morning.”

\--

Physically refreshed, the next few days went about the same as the first: Arthur led the way, while Francis followed without a word.

They both ignored the hunger that began to blossom from what was at this point almost two and a half days without food. Thirst was a more pressing concern, but luckily they found a shallow brook to drink from and wash their faces in. All streams in this area led south, Arthur knew, and while it wasn’t west, it also wasn’t east, so they agreed to follow it. Or, rather, Arthur opted to follow it and Francis didn’t protest.

Francis waded in the brook the entire time, seeming much more relaxed with his feet in the water. He still wasn’t speaking, but Arthur was glad to see even the smallest bit of ease grace his features.

Francis’ hair was still immaculate, he noticed, with only a few knots here and there, and Arthur felt the familiar twitch in his fingers he got whenever he laid eyes upon it. His face wasn’t quite as untouched; bags set under his hollow eyes. He looked like he could keep going, but Arthur hoped that they could find a better place to rest than an ancient tree soon.

His prayers were answered on the fourth day once the sun had once again almost sunk below the horizon. A clearing opened out suddenly, breaking the endless wall of trees, the floor of forest decay softening into sparse grass. In the far corner of the space, a tiny stone hut stood. The two wordlessly made their way over to the structure to further investigate.

It had obviously been abandoned for quite some time; the door was missing, and its wooden roof was spotted with rot and holes. A wood stove connected to a chimney, probably clogged. The wilderness had encroached on the floor, weeds and moss poking between almost every stone on the walls and floor.

The only semblance of an organized room came in the form of the kitchen, which aside from the stove consisted of a small table with two chairs, a simple wash bin, a cabinet, and a makeshift counter space. All of it was covered in dust and looked as if it was nearing the end of its lifespan. Beyond the kitchen, the only furniture was a chest of drawers and two narrow beds.

Francis wasted no time pushing past Arthur and falling into one of the beds. He coughed as a thick layer of dust was unsettled by his movement, but he remained in place on the stiff bedding.

“I suppose that answers my question as to whether you’d like to stay here,” Arthur chuckled, settling on the other bed. He wrinkled his nose. “It smells awful in here, though. This place needs a good spring cleaning. And a new roof.”

Francis turned to look at him, still not speaking, but seemingly at least more amicable now that he was off his feet and in a bed.

“Some of this furniture probably needs to be replaced as well. And we’ll need to weed the floor. We don’t have very many tools at our disposal, but this is nothing that two young men can’t handle! How hard could it be to build a bench?”

He ran a finger across the bed frame, grimacing when the dust coated his fingertip like flour. There was nowhere to wipe his hand that wasn’t covered with the same grime, he learned the hard way.

Arthur sighed, looking down at his dirtied hand. “I’ll be honest with you, Francis; I’ve never been more uncertain of anything in my life. I’ve never held an axe before, much less rebuilt a cottage. Turns out,” he laughed, a sound with little humor laced in, “having everyone do everything for you your whole life doesn’t leave you with many practical skills. I’m probably going to need more help than I’m willing to admit, and then even more after that.”

Francis let out a soft hum, barely audible, but to Arthur it sounded like the most beautiful symphony.

\--

Like Arthur had predicted, renovating a house was incredibly difficult with no prior knowledge. He didn’t dare climb onto the roof, not after what he found lodged in the chimney while he cleaned the stove out, but he had managed to somehow reinforce the beds and chairs. He had found an axe lodged in a log nearby, most likely a blessing of the cottage’s previous occupant, and while the job was sloppy, it did what it needed to do.

Francis had found a similar gift in the form of a broom in the cabinet and had made quick work of the dust. With the surfaces clean and the bedding rinsed in the brook, the place was at least no longer a breeding ground for bugs and allergies.

It still barely passed the minimum requirement for being livable, however, so both of them found themselves spending most of their time outside. Francis had taken to exploring the area and reading by the stream, and while he was gone Arthur would work on catching whatever food he could procure. His aim and technique were terrible, but with a little help from his magic he was able to ensure that there was at least a rabbit on the table every evening.

Without an icebox, however, they couldn’t preserve anything longer than a day, and while they had no shortage of rabbit pelts, neither had any experience in doing anything with them. In short, they were severely lacking in skills and supplies.

One evening, several weeks into their new reclusive life, Francis broke the silence over their dinner of rabbit and mushrooms. “I went down the hill from the other side of the brook today.”

Arthur almost choked on his food in surprise; it was the first time Francis had initiated a conversation since their arrival. He coughed, trying to save as much face as he could. “Oh? Was there anything of note?”

Francis nodded as he swallowed a bite of his meal. “There’s a village.”

“A village!” Arthur stood, his chair falling over in the process. One of its legs broke off, attesting for his poor repair job. He hadn’t seen another living soul in almost a month; never had he imagined that there would be civilization within wandering distance.

With a village, they could eat more than the same meal of game every night. They could properly furnish and repair the cottage. They could make some money and have more to do than wander around and try to survive.

“A village,” he repeated, still in disbelief.

“A village,” Francis confirmed. “I didn’t go in, but it sounded like there was a market taking place. What day is today?”

“I haven’t the slightest clue,” Arthur admitted, and Francis laughed, a sound he hadn’t heard in what seemed like an eternity. “Tuesday, perhaps. Regardless, I want you to show me tomorrow. Show me the village, because I’m not sure I’ll be able to believe that you aren’t pulling my leg until I see it for myself.”

“I’ll have to see if I can fit you into my schedule; I have a very busy day of walking around and doing nothing tomorrow, you see.”

Were they doing this right now? Were ex-prince Arthur and ex-mermaid Francis bantering over a dinner? Arthur hadn’t heard Francis make a joke in half a year; what had brought about this sudden lightheartedness?

Surely he hadn’t gotten over being turned into a human against his will; Arthur certainly hadn’t gotten over having done that yet. Nothing could ever undo or make up for what Arthur had done, and yet Francis was kind enough to offer his laughter. The prospect of having some semblance of a livelihood must have done it. Arthur knew he would have killed to have a routine beyond the blending days that they had right now; he wasn’t surprised that Francis would share the sentiment.

He was afraid, though, that if he said anything, Francis would retreat back into his former silence, so instead he simply quipped, “Well, don’t keep me on the waiting list for long.”


	6. Chapter 6

“This is a city, Francis, not a village!” Arthur exclaimed when the settlement came into view from the top of a hill.

Buildings extended as far as he could see on evenly spaced roads, mismatched in style yet uniform in feel. A river cut through the land, acting as a natural barrier for the one side not protected by tall stone walls. Arthur could see the hustle and bustle of the cityfolk going about their daily lives, making their way to that day’s goals in the cool English morning.

“Does this classify as a city for you humans?” Francis wondered aloud. “It’s still small for mermaid standards. Well, my bad.”

Arthur was going to ask him just how big mermaid cities could get, but he restrained himself--the last thing he wanted to do was remind either of them of how their lives had been before he promptly ruined them--and merely shook his head. “There’s no point dwelling on that.” He readjusted the bundle of pelts under his arm and the hood over his head. “What’s important is that we should be able to make a pretty penny off of these, and then we can get something decent to eat for once.”

Francis gave a solid nod, and the two descended the hill towards the gates. Getting in wasn’t difficult, aside from Arthur’s fears that he would be recognized by the stationed sentry. Francis offered a smile and gestured towards their goods, and they were granted entry with a brief set of directions to the market district.

From inside, it was even more clear that this was a city. Women set out shop displays for artisan handicrafts and furniture he would have expected to see at the castle. Some men, glued to a street corner, haggled for spare change, while others haggled their services. Children weaved between baskets of fruit and carriages, frightening the horses that pulled them. He could smell grilling meat and animal musk, mixed together in the air in a way that was objectively unpleasant but distinctly city.

They followed the vague instructions they were given, turning down an intersection marked in stone towards what looked like a collection of outdoor stalls. It didn’t look too busy at the moment, and Arthur hoped he could take advantage of the slow day to get some decent prices.

“Oh, Arthur!” Francis suddenly said, pulling him out of his mental planning. “There’s a library across the street.”

“Is that so?” he mused, eying the two statues that framed its wide double doors. “How lovely. We’ll have to keep that in mind.”

A hand grabbing his own stopped him from moving forward, and he felt a tingle in his fingers when it registered that it was Francis’. “What do you mean, ‘keep that in mind?’ Can’t we go in now?” Deep blue eyes pleaded with him, or at least they were trying to, but Arthur was making a point to not look at them.

“Have you really nothing to read at home anymore?” he argued, weak even in his own ears.

“I have read every book in that ancient hovel at least twice,” Francis confirmed. “Please; it will only take a few minutes! I know what sort of book I want already.”

Arthur’s hand was pleadingly squeezed, and he snatched it away to hold close to his chest. “Alright, alright, I understand; we’ll get something to read. Please, Francis, don’t give me a heart attack in the middle of town!”

Francis quipped about how this was nothing to have a heart attack over, but he was ignored in favor of Arthur’s beeline to their newfound destination. “I’m going to see if there’s anything like an almanac. You have your fun in the fantasy section or what have you.”

There were quite a few almanacs on the shelves dedicated to alchemy, like he had assumed. Arthur was used to potions and small charms, not celestial mapping, so he tried his best to find one that looked like a beginner could understand it, eventually settling on a small book written in layman’s terms.

“Oh, are you French, sir?” Arthur faintly heard when he approached the front counter. A woman’s voice.

“I come to you all the way from Calais, mes chéries!” That was Francis.

“Marianne, please!” another woman snapped. “Just write up his library card.”

Francis leaned on the front desk, which was currently staffed by two young ladies around their age. The seated one, hair pleated neatly in two, wore a scowl and she adjusted her glasses. The second, tsking and making notes, seemed much more relaxed--that one must have been Marianne, he reasoned.

“Is it a crime to chat up the customers, my dear Alice?” Marianne sighed, a sound that reminded Arthur terribly of Francis and led him to wonder if she was French as well. “And such a handsome one at that. Don’t you want that face to be a regular customer?”

Alice sputtered, face heating up. “We are here to loan out books, not find husbands!”

Francis chuckled. “To have two beautiful women such as yourselves argue over me, could this be heaven?”

Alice only blushed harder, while Marianne laughed along. “That depends, Monsieur. We close up at five--”

“Ah, Francis, there you are!” Arthur quickly butted in, making his own way over to the counter. “I managed to find a thing or two.”

“I see you have a friend,” Marianne noted curtly, most lively peeved that she had been interrupted.

“Yes, this is,” Francis began, looking at Arthur for permission to introduce him. Arthur was too busy sulking to understand his reasoning for that and nodded without giving it any thought. “This is Arthur.”

Marianne hummed, taking Arthur’s small stack of books from him. “Arthur, huh? Quite a scandalous name to hear nowadays.”

Arthur blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

Alice stood up to retrieve more ink for her pen. “Are you planning on scaring away every customer who doesn’t catch your fancy?” She offered Arthur an apologetic glance. “She means with the neighboring king’s assassination. They still haven’t found the culprit, you know.”

Arthur blanched, and Francis luckily knew to take over. “Oh, over in Castelshire, was it? I didn’t realize that it was still an open case.”

“Open isn’t the right word; more like they know exactly who did it and just don’t know where he’s gone off to.” Marianne looked Arthur up and down. “You might want to be careful with that cloak, boy, or they might think it was you.”

“Boy?!” Arthur squawked, making Francis keel over in laughter. Arthur smacked his shaking shoulders, which had the opposite effect he was hoping for.

“Whatever did happen to Castelshire?” he finally asked once his laughs died down to snorts and side glances at Arthur.

Alice shrugged. “Last I heard, the king’s nephew, Alistair, was coming down from the highlands to assume the throne.” She tied the parcel that held their books. “It’s not much for us here in Southampton to worry about, though, so that might have changed.”

“I see,” said Francis, as he took the package back from her. “Well, thank you very much, ladies. I will have to take you up on that dinner offer one day!”

Marianne smiled and waggled her fingers goodbye, while Alice pressed for her to stay professional.

Arthur nearly dragged Francis out of the library, muttering about how he would never go back.

“They were sweet girls and the selection was good; what are you going on about with this ‘never going back’ nonsense?”

He didn’t have an answer for that, so he simply restated their goal of making some money.

Francis had little interest in the shops in this area, so Arthur took the lead, stopping at any stall that looked like it was buying as well as selling. 

Most weren’t interested unless Arthur was willing to buy something as well, but he found one that was willing to take half of his load at a slashed price. It was an incredibly slashed price, but it was money all the same.

“Alright, this is something, at least,” Arthur said, more to himself than to Francis. “This might be enough for at least some salted pork.”

“Any meat that is not rabbit is fine with me,” Francis agreed, allowing Arthur to lead him down a busier street towards a nearby butcher.

They had to shove their way through the crowds, and Francis held onto Arthur’s hood to keep from losing him. Every bump of a shoulder elicited a curse out of Arthur; he wasn’t used to being jostled like this at all, but he couldn’t make a fuss and bring unwanted attention to them.

One particularly hurried push sent Arthur straight into a lantern post, and he audibly cursed that time. There was a tear in his shirt from where the post jutted out, which would normally be no problem, but with their limited clothes and even more limited money certainly was one. “Bloody asshole,” he groaned, feeling the worn fabric between his fingers.

“Oh? I’d say you’re the asshole here, your highness.”

Arthur froze, the voice having just left the store right behind him. Had he been recognized? No, he couldn’t even be seen from this angle.

“To have left your poor friend all alone, without even a goodbye? You may as well have just actually cut off my head. I can’t say I ever expected to see you here, though.”

He let out the breath that he had been holding, turning to see a mischievous grin that he thought he would never lay eyes on again. “Lucian.”

Lucian’s smile widened, as he closed the distance between them with a firm hug. “Look at you, alive and well. Or, alive at least. Not executed.” He laughed. “Tell me, your highness, whatever did happen to get you into this mess?”

“It’s just Arthur now,” he said, offering a one-armed squeeze in return. “I’m certainly no highness at this point.”

“Alright then, just Arthur. Now, your tale, if you would.”

Arthur recounted the events of the past few months, his magical experiments, his father’s death, running away with Francis and making a new home in the woods. He left out most of the details of the king’s assassination, not wanting to resurface the memory or shed any light on the truth of the incident. Lucian listened intently, offering hums and nods where appropriate, and grimacing when Arthur complained about the state that their house was in.

“And that brings us to today. We’re trying to figure out a way to have some actual money.”

Lucian gave one final nod. “Brave little Arthur, making his own living now. You’ve grown considerably from the last time I saw you.”

Arthur crossed his arms. “Yes, well, things were very different the last time we met.”

Sensing that changing the subject would be optimal, Lucian brought up a proposition. “I’ve taken on an apprentice from the continent, you know. His name is Vladimir; he’s very reliable with handiwork.”

“Ah, I wouldn’t want to--”

“Wouldn’t want to what, Arthur?” Lucian didn’t give him the chance to protest. “Go out of his way? Intrude? Lead the authorities straight to you? He’s my apprentice, and if I want things to stay quiet, they’ll stay quiet. You need a working chimney, don’t you?”

Arthur frowned. “I suppose, so. It’s quite out of the way, though.”

“You should know perfectly well that we spend enough time in the woods as it is. It was fate that you came here on the day I needed to do some rare stocking, and I am not about to let you deny fate.”

Lucian smiled that disarming smile that he was so good at, and Arthur knew he would be foolish to reject the offer further. It really must have been fate, for the only familiar face he felt he could trust to be the one that he happened upon in an unfamiliar city. A friend that still cared about him even in his absence was more than he had dared to bargain for. He couldn’t pass that up.

Ever-intuitive, Lucian saw the agreement in Arthur’s face. “Brilliant! I can’t wait to meet this Francis that you’ve spoken so highly of.”

“I,” Arthur nearly squeaked, “I haven’t spoken highly of him or anything!” He stubbornly ignored the warmth in his cheeks and the quiver in his fists. “And besides, he’s right…”

He trailed off, turning to gesture at his companion and finding that there was no companion to gesture at.

“Oh,” said Lucian, “did you get separated in the crowd?”

Separated in the crowd? Right, that must have been what it was. It’s not like Francis saw an opportunity to slip away from Arthur and took it, right? Leading Arthur to a busy city hadn’t been a ploy to run away. It couldn’t have been.

No, Lucian was unplanned for. If anything, it wasn’t premeditated. However, Francis was still very much missing, which sent a jolt of panic straight through Arthur. Was he alright? Had someone seen his attractive features and kidnapped him? Was he stowing away on the first ship far away from here? Life with Arthur certainly must have been unforgiving for him, but the rest of the world wasn’t any less so for someone so unused to it.

Lucian said something about helping Arthur find him, which Arthur barely heard, and the next thing he knew they were both pushing through the crowds again.

There was no sign of him at the library, and the clerks he had befriended earlier didn’t know where he was either. The other streets they had previously traveled down also came up empty.

In this crowd they would never find him, he worried. It was impossible. Francis was gone, he was gone and Arthur was alone, and he had lost him and he knew he deserved this, he deserved to be alone. After all he had taken away from everyone, he deserved to have nothing in the end. But he would have rather had Francis leave him plainly; at least then he would have known it was Francis’ choice.

He tugged on his hair, breathing ragged as Lucian steered them towards one last crowd which seemed to be rapidly growing in size and excitement. Arthur screwed his eyes closed and forced his way to the front of the group.

To his amazement, Francis stood at the center of the group, singing along to another man’s energetic fiddling. He swayed back and forth, overexaggerated movements emphasizing his song. The locale was a pub, Arthur realized, and the patrons hollered and laughed with the tale Francis was weaving in his lyrics.

The words were obviously improvised--something about paying for a meal in seashells--and he stumbled every now and again, but he kept up with the tune given to him and commanded the stage as if he had been there his whole life.

Francis’ voice itself was enchanting; Arthur had heard him hum countless times, but a full-blown song was new to him, and he found himself silently thanking the heavens that Francis had decided on this as a hobby. Lucian hummed his appreciation from nearby, leaving Arthur to his world in which only Francis and his song existed.

Upon spotting the eyes boring into him, Francis finished off his performance with a grandiose bow, grabbed the pouch at his feet, and made his way to Arthur.

Arthur blinked out of his stupor as Francis reached him. “Francis.”

Francis beamed, poking at his chest. “From the look on your face, I’d say I was a big hit!”

Arthur felt an uncomfortable warmth bloom where he had been prodded, and his cheeks heated up to match again. Lucian snickered somewhere within earshot, and he did his best to drown out all of it with a shout. “You jerk! You absolute bastard of a fish!”

Francis scoffed. “Excuse me?”

“You just vanished! I thought you had gotten whisked away, Francis! What would you have done if you couldn’t find me again?!”

He scowled. “Need I remind you, Arthur, that I was the one who found this city in the first place?” He withdrew his hand. “I would have been able to make it back to the house.”

Arthur could only stare at him, knowing that Francis was right but unwilling to concede that Arthur was wrong to have been worried so senselessly.

Lucian coughed, getting both of their attention. “Are you going to introduce me to your friend, Arthur?”

Francis eyed him suspiciously, and Arthur eagerly took the change in subject. “Right. Francis, this is Lucian. He and I were well acquainted back before, well. Everything. He’s offered up his pupil to help us with some of the renovations on our house.”

Francis clapped at the news and reached out to shake Lucian’s hand; Lucian met him halfway with the same energy. “Oh, it is a pleasure, Monsieur Lucian! I would do anything to have the disaster we call home be any more bearable. You and your student are welcome at any time! Oh, and,” he held up the pouch in his other hand, shaking it a bit to reveal the tell-tale sound of clinking metal. “We can even pay you.”

“Francis, did you get all that from,” Arthur prompted in disbelief.

“From that little stage show just then, yes. The pub owner said I’m welcome to come back at any time; isn’t that fun? You can call me a true bard now!”

Lucian laughed. “I like this one, Arthur. He has almost as much passion as you do.”

The trio grabbed a table at the bar and ordered a pint and some dinner, Lucian’s treat. Francis made a face at the ale while Lucian recounted the details of Castelshire’s future. Alice and Marianne were right, for the most part, Arthur’s cousin had been crowned two weeks prior, leading to an impromptu union between his kingdom and Arthur’s. Alistair was a bully, he lamented, and he didn’t envy anyone who lived as his subject. Lucian replied that roughhousing as children didn’t equate to tyranny, which only made Arthur sulk further.

The search for Arthur had been all but abandoned, due to how long it had been. He was declared dead in official documents.

Eventually, Francis informed the others that he was feeling tired and going home. Arthur tried to protest him leaving on his own, but Lucian took Francis’ side in saying that he should exercise more trust towards his housemate. With one last handshake, he pocketed his earnings and left the two Castelshire natives at the table.

“I do like him,” Lucian hummed. “You can tell he has a lot of life in him.”

“Does he?” Arthur mused, swishing his drink in its glass. “I couldn’t tell.”

Lucian took a sip of his own. “You live together, Arthur; it’s no crime to admire a man.”

“Who said I admired him?” he retorted, too quickly.

Dark eyes crinkled, and Arthur knew he had stepped into a trap that he couldn’t easily escape. “It would not be the first man you’ve admired.”

“I see you’re modest as ever, Lucian.” Arthur shoveled the last bite of his meal into his mouth. “Do you find it fun to brag to an empty audience?”

Lucian hummed. “I distinctly remember you saying you would have my head if I ruined your poor little reputation. Who else was this commoner supposed to brag to?”

“Ruined reputation,” Arthur laughed, “some good that did me.”

“It’s not all bad; now it’s just you and your French husband.”

Arthur felt his cheeks heat up again, cursing how easily flustered he was even without the small amount of alcohol in him. “He’s not my--I don’t think--this is different from what,” he hesitated, gesturing vaguely between himself and Lucian, “that was.”

“Oh, of course,” Lucian nodded. “You could actually look away from me.”

“I can look away from Francis perfectly fine!”

“I’m just saying, things happen, and whatever does happen you have my blessing.”

“I don’t need your blessing!” He stood. “There’s nothing to bless!”

“Keep telling yourself that, Mister ‘never leave me again’.”

Arthur grumbled a string of complaints as Lucian paid their tab.

They made the journey back to the gates together, Lucian keeping up bits of small talk while Arthur kept glaring at everything in sight. “In exactly a week I’ll be back here,” he said when they reached the edge of the city. “Vladimir will be with me, so if you come back, you can show us this new house of yours.”

Arthur finally let his face soften. “Alright, we’ll do that. Thank you for this, Lucian. For everything.”

Lucian clasped a hand around Arthur’s shoulder. “I’m glad to see you alive and well, my friend.”

The journey back seemed much longer without Francis, and Arthur realized that it really was him that needed the other to navigate home. He got lost a few times, and by the time he made it to their little clearing, the sun had long since set.

Waiting for him on the table was a small bouquet of lilacs and daffodils, in a pitcher that was too cracked to use as a drinking vessel but apparently still able to function as a vase. “What’s this?” he asked, moving forward to investigate them. The fragrance they provided was a wonderful escape from the mold and rabbit that permeated the walls.

“Hm?” Francis looked up from his new book. “Oh, those? I saw them and thought they looked nice.”

Arthur nodded and didn’t question it further, moving to store the vegetables he had purchased from the market.


	7. Chapter 7

It took four solid months of saving up what little money was left after buying food and supplies and paying Vladimir for his services, but by the end of the summer he was able to afford two high-quality fishing rods.

Francis had been musing for a while about doing something more active, but he always put the idea away with a huff that he needed to focus on making handicrafts for Arthur to exchange for food and rehearsing songs to perform.

Arthur had insisted that he didn’t have to go at it so tirelessly, but Francis shook his head vehemently.

“If I have to go another day eating rabbit or squirrel, I will walk back into the ocean, gills or not,” he said, and Arthur couldn’t tell if he was joking.

Arthur couldn’t argue with that either; he, too, had never fully settled on the gamey animals after having grown up on full-course meals his whole life. The market at least provided chicken and mutton, and they needed the money from selling fish and baskets to obtain that.

But still, Arthur had found a momentary release from fishing in the form of embroidery, and it didn’t sit right with him that Francis had no break of his own. Francis was too anxious about dinner to agree to an unproductive rest, however, so Arthur had done his best to think of a compromise.

Fishing seemed like a good idea.

“You want me to come with you?” He had sounded surprised when he heard the request. They usually spent the daylight hours separate, working on whatever it was that needed to be worked on. “You can go ahead, can’t you? I was going to pad our blankets.”

“Just once,” Arthur pleaded. “Look, I even have better fishing rods now! You keep saying you want to go outside so why don’t you when the opportunity comes bloody knocking?”

Francis’ eyebrows rose at that, and he looked over to the door. Lo and behold, two fishing rods, sturdier than the previous one, rested against their ice box. He pressed his fist against his mouth, and Arthur was prepared to bask in his gratitude, when he heard, “I could have been buying nicer clothes with that money!”

Arthur sputtered. “ _ Clothes?! _ I pinched pennies for  _ months _ , and you have the audacity to think about frocks?! You don’t even  _ like _ clothes, Francis!”

“I like to look at them!” Francis countered, but he seemed to know it was a weak argument, for he stood up. “Well, don’t just stand there fuming. We were going fishing?”

“If I don’t use you as bait first, yes.”

Arthur slipped his shoes on, while Francis opted to go without, and they started the short trek to the river.

“I know a deeper area that likely has more fish. I was thinking of going there instead and seeing what we could get.”

Francis nodded. “You’re the expert on fish here.”

“You literally used to be,” Arthur started to retort, but paused. He shouldn’t make light of his sins; they weren’t something to be joked about.

“Literally used to be a fish?” Francis offered. “It’s alright, you can say it. Fine, you are the expert on fish _ ing _ here. I could tell you how old it is but I cannot hook it to save my life.”

“That’s because you’ve never tried.” The soft squish of leaves sopped by rain rang uncomfortably in Arthur’s ears, but Francis didn’t seem to mind them against his bare feet. “If you get started, I’m sure you’ll be an expert in no time. For example, I’ve only just started my artistic journey, but I’m rather getting the hang of needlework!”

“Oh, is that supposed to be art?”

“What!” Arthur pushed up a sleeve with his empty hand. “Francis, you wanker, I ought to make you my next canvas!”

Francis laughed and scurried away. “You would never jab this flawless skin!”

“I would jab you like an unfinished stuffed toy, Francis, just watch me!”

Arthur chased Francis through the wood, very intent on actually giving him a jab or two to the ribs. Unfortunately for him, Francis proved to be incredibly agile after growing used to his legs. Weaving between the trees and bounding over roots, he appeared to glide like a deer would.

Arthur paused for a moment, awestruck by the sight ahead of him, before smacking his cheeks to snap him out of it. Of course Francis was majestic, he had done nothing but swim for the first twenty-six years of his life before Arthur had--no, best to not bring that up, or it would ruin his mood for the rest of the day.

Regardless, Francis was majestic,  _ yes _ , it was obvious and Arthur’s noticing and appreciating it didn’t  _ mean _ anything.

The distinct sound of deep rushing water caught his attention, and he called out. “Francis! The spot is over this way.”

Francis halted his escape and looked behind him with a nod. Arthur waited for him to backtrack, and the two pushed their way past a bramble thicket and onto the riverbank.

The river here was twice as wide as the stream that fed it, and even deeper still, if the faintness of the bottom was anything to go by. The area was shaded by the canopy formed by the trees overhead, but patches of sunlight were allowed through, speckling the rocky shore. The shadows of fish moved below the surface of the water, uninterrupted save for a few boulders that protruded here and there.

Francis winced as the bare rocks dug into his feet, but the moment he laid eyes on the water, that seemed to be all but forgotten as he broke into a near-sprint to the water’s edge.

“Francis, if you make too much noise, you’ll scare away all the fish!” Arthur tried to warn, but it was too late. Francis had already stripped himself of all clothing and flopped on his stomach into the water. “Well, there goes our catch.”

The man in the water paid him no attention, completely submerging himself and surfacing rightside up. “Sorry, what was that?”

Arthur sighed and started to unpack their bait. His original goal was to get Francis out of the house and enjoying himself, so he supposed this wasn’t a complete failure of a journey even if they caught nothing.

“There are minnows over here!” Francis exclaimed. He pushed his head back down, and bubbles that sounded suspiciously like the word “hello” rose out of the water.

“Lovely!” Arthur called back. “But not very useful to catch.” He set up his line and cast it a safe distance away from Francis and his small silver friends.

Francis seemed to have successfully scared away all of the large fish in the area, and his continued splashing and moving around was doing nothing to remedy that. However, troublesome as it was to be casting and casting and coming up empty handed, Arthur couldn’t will himself to stop his fun.

He also couldn’t tear his gaze away from the spectacle in front of him. Maybe it was their diet, but Francis’ body was very lean. His arms were toned from repeated movement in weaving, and his legs from their walks to the city. He moved even more gracefully in the water than he did on land. And his hair, his hair fanned out around him like a halo. It didn’t stick to him awkwardly when he surfaced, and Arthur fiddled with his own bangs when their eyes met.

The deep blue in his eyes shone with excitement, and Arthur felt like he needed to look away or they would burn into his soul, but he couldn’t.

Francis’ eyes crinkled with his grin. He climbed out of the water to make his way over to the stump Arthur sat upon, and Arthur was immediately made aware of one crucial fact.

“Your clothes!” he stammered, feeling heat rise to his cheeks as Francis bounded towards him. “Put your clothes back on, you frog!”

Francis did not spare his pants a second glance, and instead wrapped his arms around the now-stiff-as-a-board Brit’s torso. Arthur’s lips flapped, but were unable to make sound aside from a few squeaks. He was certain his face could fry anything that touched it, and his fingers could only flex and unflex in their place at his sides.

Francis pushed his face into the crook of Arthur’s neck, and Arthur thanked the heavens that he didn’t comment on the heat radiating off of him. “Thank you for bringing me out here today,” he said, muffled by Arthur’s skin. He could feel his breath tickling his pulse. “You were right; I hadn’t realized how much I needed a break.”

Arthur tried unsuccessfully to calm his heartbeat, and so opted (unsuccessfully) to push against the vice grip he was caught in. “Yes, well! That’s all jolly good and well and dandy!” he said in rapid succession. “Good to have your back and be there for you and help where it counts!”

Francis released his hold just enough to pull back and look at Arthur with a comically quizzical look, which Arthur took as his opening to wriggle out of his grasp. “Where are you going?”

“I,” he looked back. “I’m going home! There’s something very important that I remembered I have to do is all. You have your fun; you know the way back, yes?” Francis opened his mouth to respond. “Great, wonderful! Alright I will see you later then.” With those last rushed sentences, he turned on his heel and sped back into the woods, fishing gear completely forgotten.

This was nothing, nothing at all, he told himself, taking the path back home through muscle memory. Francis was nice to look at, that was just a fact. It didn’t mean anything that he had found himself unwilling to look away. His soft hair and beautiful eyes were just. Just a fact of life, like the sun coming up or acorns falling.

And it didn’t mean anything that seeing Francis light up at the water, and god, at  _ him _ , had made him feel like he had achieved a far greater victory than anything he could have done as king. Wanting Francis to be happy, and wanting to be the one that made Francis happy, that didn’t  _ mean _ anything! He just didn’t want a grumpy roommate, that was all!

He certainly felt nothing at Francis’ warm embrace, didn’t find himself on cloud nine when his words of thanks reached his ears, no way, no how.

Lucian was not right, absolutely not. Not this time.

He absolutely did no’t have the biggest crush on Francis that Great Britain had ever seen, how  _ dare _ the thought even cross his mind.


	8. Chapter 8

After the first, admittedly unsuccessful fishing trip, Francis welcomed the addition of fish to their diet to stir up the monotony of breakfast porridge. He shoveled a forkful of chub into his mouth as he watched Arthur and Vladimir put the finishing touches on an old mirror he had pawned.

“All finished!” the mage apprentice announced with a clap of his hands. “Francis, do you have any suggestions for where to hang this beauty?”

“Why,” he winked at the two, “I’d be rather uncomfortable pinned to the wall, don’t you think?” Vladimir doubled over, but Francis certainly didn’t miss Arthur’s not-so-subtle cough into his hand as he averted his gaze. “As for the mirror, over in that corner would be nice. That way I can see my gorgeous face right after I wake up.”

“As if you needed to be more full of yourself,” Arthur muttered, and Francis stuck his tongue out at him.

“Arthur, you can mount it on the wall, no? I’ll leave you to it; there are some more materials I need to get for Lucian before Trinkets opens.” Vladimir gathered his things.

“Ah, wait, I haven’t given you your pay.”

“Consider this one on the house! It was nice to see you lovebirds again.” With a toothy grin, the blood-eyed youth left a snickering Francis and sputtering Arthur to their breakfast.

This had become a normal occurrence in their small, now rather comfortable cottage. They shared breakfast, sometimes with Vlad and sometimes without, before Arthur went out to fish and hunt while Francis stayed in to weave.

Arthur was still banned from the kitchenette, so Francis always made sure dinner was ready by a reasonable time. If Arthur was home early, he’d just have to wait, and if he was home late, he’d just have to eat cold meat. As such, he had grown adept to coming home on time.

As it turned out, the more things one had the more things one could afford, and Arthur’s city hauls evolved from meat, vegetables, and the rare chocolate piece to include cushions, kitchenware, and even some fancy clothes. For Francis to look at, he explained, and Francis nearly fell in love right then.

Nearly, that was. Because he wasn’t. In love, that was.

Arthur seemed comfortable with this simple and sustainable life they had built up, and Francis certainly wasn’t complaining either. Things fell easily into a routine, stirred up by day trips and pub gigs just enough for it to never feel boring.

Today seemed to be one of those trip days, because Arthur had asked him to pack dinner in their basket and meet him outside when he came back from the woods. He was never so vague with his requests, so Francis found himself finishing their sandwiches and roasted vegetables earlier than needed.

He sat in front of the cottage, rolling a stone between his feet, waiting for Arthur’s return. A picnic wasn’t an unusual treat--they often ventured out to the riverbed or even simply outside to avoid staring at the same four walls all day--but a nighttime picnic was new. It was spring, so Francis’ birthday wasn’t any time soon, and he doubted Arthur knew it. Then again, he also didn’t know Arthur’s birthday, but surely Lucian did, and Vladimir hadn’t said anything. Had they accomplished something recently, reached a milestone that Francis had forgotten about or hadn’t realized?

Or was this… no, well, even if it was a date (which it certainly wasn’t), it wasn’t important. Francis wasn’t excited at the thought.

Lost in his thoughts, he barely noticed that Arthur had returned--curiously, with a basket of his own.

Francis narrowed his eyes. “I thought you said I would be the one to make dinner. Whatever is in there, it is definitely toxic and going nowhere near my mouth.”

“Well, luckily for you it is neither food nor anything you need to know about,” came the easy reply, though Francis could see the nervousness on Arthur’s face. Arthur had never been worried about a picnic before. Francis couldn’t help but wonder what was up, and he forced the butterflies that came with the thought back down. “It’s a bit of a trek, I’m afraid, so you may want to wear your shoes this time.”

Francis let out a sigh so painful that a bystander would think he was told he was being sent into exile, but the exasperation that managed to overshadow Arthur’s nerves urged him to comply. They weren’t uncomfortable shoes, anyway; Francis just heavily preferred being barefoot.

With that taken care of, he reconvened with Arthur outside and took his arm. Arthur’s face flared up and he insisted that he hadn’t offered it to Francis, and maybe he hadn’t, but they were already like this so why bother changing it? Francis offered that reasoning, and Arthur begrudgingly accepted it, and they began their lengthy journey to the mystery destination.

And lengthy it was.

After what must have been an hour by then of near-silent walking, mostly attributed to Arthur’s nerves and Francis’ attempts to not complain, Arthur finally exclaimed, “We’re here!”

Before Francis could ask where “here” was, the scent of saltwater filled the air and the familiar sound of crashing waves filled his ears. “The ocean!”

“Well, the Channel, to be precise,” Arthur mumbled rubbing his arm where Francis had been squeezing it, “but yes, the ocean.”

Francis grabbed Arthur by the hand and pulled him to the beach, kicking his shoes off somewhere in the process. His toes dug into the sand, still warm but beginning to cool down, with every step. Shells, most of them broken, littered the area. A vast expanse of blue-green spread out all across the horizon.

Home. It felt like he was home.

Arthur resisted Francis’ tugs towards the water, causing him to stop and look back. “Wait,” he instructed. Francis pouted, but Arthur merely removed his own shoes before nodding. “Alright, go ahead.”

That was all the invitation he needed to drag Arthur until they were both waist deep in the sea. Francis admittedly found himself completely distracted by the feel of the cool water crashing and lapping around him and left the other behind, but Arthur seemed keen on not getting his face wet anyway. He floated, and dove, and everything in between. Out of the corner of his salted vision, he could see Arthur keeping a close eye on him.

“Keep having your fun, alright?” he eventually said. “I’ll be right back.”

Francis paddled towards him. “Don’t tell me you have gotten overwhelmed and are returning home again,” he frowned. “I don’t know the way this time and I am having fun.”

“Overwhelmed?” Arthur echoed, avoiding Francis’ eyes. “No, nevermind that, I’ll just be right over there.” He gestured behind a rock pile. “Just stay away from there for a moment and I’ll come get you in a bit.”

Satisfied that his companion was not leaving him stranded on the beach, Francis nodded and returned to his laps and twirls. Arthur scurried back onto the shore and grabbed both baskets before vanishing behind the rocks.

After he had gotten out of his field of vision, Francis stopped and stared after him. What was he doing back there? Francis was sure now that there was an important day that he had forgotten. That wasn’t to say that he minded having a celebration with Arthur, but he was very suspicious about the contents of the second basket. Not to mention still entirely uncertain of the occasion.

Unless, the occasion was something that had yet to happen? Francis was caught off guard when he felt a jump in his chest as the thought crossed his mind.

No, that was ridiculous. Sure, he had noticed Arthur’s lingering glances and the way he flushed at almost everything recently. And yes, Francis himself had been seeking out any and every opportunity to tease him, and he didn’t at all mind the idea when it played in his mind. But, no, Arthur couldn’t possibly think of him that way, and Francis most definitely didn’t either. No. Not at all.

He was interrupted from his internal argument by a shout. “You can come over now, Francis!”

Shoving aside a mental note on how often his name left Arthur’s lips, and now nice it sounded when it did, Francis made his way over. “This had better be worth it,” he warned. “My pants are soaked and it is rather uncomfortable out of the--”

His cross remark was completely shut down by the sight in front of him. Arthur had set up a candlelight picnic dinner for the two of them. Candles (which Arthur had somehow managed to light all of, albeit not without a struggle, if the finger he hid in his other hand gave any clue) sat on and around the blanket. The meal Francis had prepared was set out alongside two empty dishes, and it appeared the offending mystery item had been a chocolate cake from the baker in the city.

“Arthur, I,” Francis attempted, but he found himself at a loss for words.

“I take it you like it, then?” Arthur asked, pride clear on his face, before it fell a moment later. “You do, right? I was hoping--I mean--I read that the French love these sorts of romantic gestures and, and I know you aren’t  _ technically  _ French but you’re close, so I thought--”

“I love it.”

Arthur stopped rambling to look up at Francis. “You do?”

Francis nodded and took his seat across from Arthur. “I do. I love it. Thank you.”

Suddenly at a complete loss for words apparently, Arthur sheepishly gave his own nod and reached for a sandwich. “I’m glad.”

It was true, Francis did love it. It wasn’t what he had been expecting, or maybe it was exactly what he had been expecting, but he loved it. A picnic, under the combined moon- and candlelight, surrounded by the scent and smell of the waves, was everything he could dream of. And to have such a picnic with Arthur of all people, well that… 

...didn’t have any significance at all. It was just a miscellaneous factor in his perfect picnic, right?

Francis glanced up from his onion wedge at Arthur. The way he focused on his sandwich like it would run away if he broke concentration was admittedly adorable, his eyes screwed like they were. The flames from the candles danced in said eyes, highlighting them like an impenetrable forest. His hair also reflected the light, and in the soft glow it looked so soft and Francis couldn’t help but laugh at himself.

There was little point lying to himself any further, he decided. He was happy to be on a date with Arthur. Arthur was just as crucial to the event as the location and meal were. More important, even.

Arthur frowned. “What are you staring at? Is there something on my face?”

“Yes, your eyebrows,” Francis quipped, and Arthur was about to make a fuss before he continued. “No, I was just thinking that I am very happy right now.”

Arthur seemed taken aback by that, for his face flushed pink and he averted his gaze. “I’m,” he began, coming up short for a good minute. “I’m happy to hear that. This is, well, it’s the least I could have done.”

Francis could see Arthur’s mind wander off, most likely to sorrows and tribulations long past. It didn’t surprise him that memories of those times still plagued Arthur, and he would be lying if he said such thoughts never crossed his mind. He thought about Calais often, and had wondered on more than one occasion what the best time to slip away would be. He had considered asking Vladimir if there were truly no methods to turn a human back into a mermaid.

That was in the moments when Arthur was absent, whether in the woods or the city, and he had nothing else to occupy his mind. Here, though, he felt like there was little need to think of the other side of the Channel. Or, rather, that it was easy to forget about the home you had left when there was a new one staring you right in the face.

Yes, the sea wasn’t what Francis had registered as home; Arthur was.


	9. Chapter 9

Picnics had grown from a special treat to a near-weekly occurrence over the next two months. Francis wasn’t complaining; the sun and soil always felt amazing, and he felt comfortable enough in their living situation to put down his handicrafts every now and then.

“Are you still there?” Arthur called behind him from around five meters ahead as he led the way to a clearing he had spotted in the woods a few days before.

Francis squinted up at the sky to get a reading on their direction. Northeast. The back of his head stung a bit, most likely from the sun, but the smell of the baker’s fresh muffins kept him firmly on the path to the picnic. “Still here!”

Arthur paused for a moment, turning to help his voice carry. “It was around here somewhere, I think. About 15 minutes in this direction, and then I veered off to the right for a while.”

“A while,” Francis mocked and held up their basket of goodies to deter Arthur from shoving him.

“If you want to ever get to eat those pastries, you’ll have to trust me and keep going.” Arthur huffed, and Francis snickered at having successfully ruffled his feathers. “Another ten, at the most.”

“Ten days? You should have just left me to die at home, it would have been faster.”

“Minutes, you absolute pain in the arse.”

After their midnight picnic on the beach, neither Arthur nor Francis had brought up their date or the topic of their relationship again. Francis enjoyed the comfortable arrangement they had; he enjoyed being close housemates. He enjoyed splitting the chores and going on picnics, and taking occasional trips into the city. He enjoyed flirting with both Arthur and Vladimir, watching the former lose his composure and the latter barrel over in laughter. He enjoyed yelling at and insulting the other whenever the moment fit, and being completely over it the next moment.

At the same time, he wondered if he would also enjoy being more than simply housemates. If he would enjoy waking up in Arthur’s arms, only flirting with Arthur, splitting the chores and going on picnics, yelling and insulting and being completely over it.

He never knew what he wanted to do when it came to Arthur, Francis concluded, as he pressed his palm to the side of his head to will the stinging away. There were some nights where what they already had felt like all he needed, and others where it felt like the last thing he needed. Arthur was kind and considerate, in his own way, but he had an insufferable attitude that had never truly left him. Not to mention that he had trapped Francis worlds away from his home while they had barely known each other.

He wondered if it was for those same reasons that Arthur never brought it up. It didn’t take a fool to realize that Francis was the one who had killed his father. And yet, Arthur had never said anything, never asked questions and never lashed out. Did Arthur not care? Was he suppressing his anger and letting it pile up until it would be unstoppable? Or had he simply handled it alone?

Had Francis also handled it alone, he wondered, or had Arthur been there to handle his grief with him?

Maybe they should talk about it soon, he reasoned, because the uncertainty of the situation was starting to get to him. It was frustrating to wonder if Arthur was going to be completely platonic for the rest of their lives or to do a 180 at any moment. It only made him second guess many of his own actions, as he started worrying about whether he was misreading things, and that doubt made his head hurt because  _ a disaster is coming _ and--

Francis stopped dead in his tracks. A disaster. It had been so long, his mind so occupied by other things that he hadn’t even registered the dull warning in his head. A disaster. A disaster was coming.

“Arthur, we need to go back,” he shouted warily, but there was no answer. Arthur was further ahead, somewhere, out of sight. 

Francis prayed he wasn’t out of earshot as well. “Arthur! We have to go; there’s--”

A crash of thunder drowned out the rest of his warning, and raindrops started heavily falling moments after. Francis ducked against the trunk of a tree, but the downpour still soaked him to the bone in a matter of seconds. He held his hand over his eyes, but he could barely see the next tree over. If Arthur was hard to spot before, he was good as lost now.

“Arthur!”

He was as good as lost. Francis was as good as lost, too. He could easily get lost in the woods, wait out the storm, and slip away once it cleared up. He could get on a boat to Calais. He could just stay on a boat. There was nothing stopping him from going home, or as close to home as he could.

He didn’t want to.

“Arthur!!”

Francis stumbled forward, tripping over roots and bumping into trees, unable to see and barely hearing his voice over the drumming of rain and crashing of thunder. He kept yelling, however; he yelled and screamed until his voice strained and more after that.

He had to find Arthur.

Without Arthur, the cottage they shared would be far too empty, just a pair of beds and a pair of chairs with only one occupant, just a pile of books and baskets and fishing gear he would never use on his own. Without Arthur’s stories and snark and snappy comments to fill the space, it would be just a house.

Francis wanted a home, not a house.

He needed Arthur--the thought dawned upon him with a choked sob--not in the way that he previously had, not to change the water in a tub and wheel him to a window. Not to lead him through the woods and catch mountains of rabbit to eat.

He needed him to share with, to  _ be _ with.

_ The people who care about you the most will be there even in your worst.  _ The king’s words, offered to Francis but meant for Arthur, echoed in his mind.

Was that true? Had he really believed that, or was it a tactic to get Arthur to trust his advisors?

Arthur had been there, stayed there, when Francis had lost himself and ripped lives--not just the king’s, Arthur’s and his own as well--to shreds. Arthur had been stupid, so deeply stupid, and his stupidity brought cruelty. But he had been there.

Had Francis not been there as well? Been there when Arthur destroyed everything, the concept of remorse and consequence foreign to his ears? Francis had remained.

They had remained. They had been at the bottom, dragged each other down with them, and never truly found their way back to the top. But they had remained.

Did they care about each other more than anyone else? Francis doubted it. He really doubted it. But they must have cared enough to not leave each other in a storm. Even if they couldn’t make it to anywhere dry, he needed to find Arthur. He needed to be there.

Continuing his blind journey forward, he shrieked his name one last time before his voice died on the wind, leaving him to stumble on with whispers and silent pleas.


	10. Chapter 10

The first crack of thunder jolted Arthur out of his tirade about how customers at the market were starting to act as if they were entitled to his best catch. He blinked up at the sky--it hadn’t looked like it was supposed to rain--but before he could open his mouth to say anything, he found himself getting thoroughly pelted by raindrops.

“Bloody hell!” he exclaimed and rose his arms to try to shield his face, to no avail. “Well, isn’t this just grand. We’ll have to go back. Francis, are you--” he turned around, words catching in his throat as he was met by nothing but more rain.

Francis wasn’t behind him anymore.

“Shit,” he cursed under his breath. He started to retrace his steps the best he could. His footprints, and any semblance of a path, had already been washed away and replaced by steadily thickening mud that his shoes were not prepared for. He cursed the ground below him for keeping him from properly running.

He cursed the rain for waiting until he had already taken the turn to blur his vision until he couldn’t tell any landmarks from the rest of the woods.

He cursed Francis for letting him get so far ahead without saying anything. Had he slipped off? Was it a terribly timed prank? Was he ok?

Mostly, he cursed himself for not checking for him more. Ever since they had descended from Basrig he had been afraid that Francis would disappear on him if he looked away for too long, and this fear only heightened after their first trip to the city. Looks like he was right.

It wasn’t their fault, he tried to reason with himself, as he found yet another unfamiliar landscape around a bend. Rain falls; people get lost. He should focus his energy on finding Francis rather than wallowing in self hate.

It was hard, though, when his shouts came back empty, when he couldn’t even tell if he was yelling at all because the rain overpowered everything else.

He kicked what he thought was a log in frustration, only for it to fly a good ten feet before a tree interrupted its path. The item in question broke open, scattering whatever was inside around it.

For a brief moment, Arthur thought he had punted some poor creature to its doom, but as he moved closer to inspect the damage, he saw the remains of a familiar set of half a dozen muffins.

Their basket was here, which meant Francis must have been nearby. He called out for him again, growing even more terrified that he had fallen down the hill near them, or that a flash flood had whisked him away, leaving no trace but goodies that were never shared.

If the basket was there, though, that also meant that at one point this had probably been their path, which, if Arthur was right, meant that there was also a small cave, no more than a few meters deep, just below him at the bottom of the hill.

Worst case scenario, Francis was gone for good. Arthur would be lost in the woods forever, never knowing what had happened to him or what would happen to himself.

Best case scenario, he was fine, and managed to find that cave, and was waiting for Arthur there now. And even if they never found their way back, at least they would be lost forever together.

He decided that it was worth checking to see if Francis had stumbled upon that chance for shelter and pushed forward towards the hill.

Francis was anything but clumsy, Arthur knew, but the thought of him tripping or slipping and tumbling down the hill made him sick to his stomach. They wouldn’t have anything to treat the injuries that would result from that. If that happened far away from where Arthur thought it might have, it may never get treated at all.

As fate would have it, thoughts of tripping led Arthur to not notice the root that poked above the ground until it had already caught his foot and sent him on his own path to the ground.

It was by sheer luck that he hadn’t reached the hill’s slope yet and had only landed right in front of where he had fallen. However, when he moved to stand, his ankle sent needles through up his leg, and he shouted and slumped back down. Great, a sprain. Seems that he got so worked up over helping Francis that he ended up useless at it again.

Finding the other was certainly out of the picture now, and he wondered if anyone would find him or if he’d be left to die in the mud.

There was so much that he had never gotten to do or tell Francis, so much that he had looked forward to, but the irrational part of his brain told him that it was all a fleeting dream now. He hadn’t taken him everywhere he had wanted to, shown him a proper mage’s council, or adopted any fun pets to have around the house.

Most importantly, he hadn’t apologized.

It was too late, though, his pessimist side told him. Words left unsaid would always be left unsaid, moves not made left unperformed, and he would be left there, with only the humanoid figure that vaguely resembled Francis in the distance to mock him.

Wait.

“Francis!” he all but screamed, and by some grace of God Francis turned to look in his direction.

He scurried over, slipping on patches of wet leaves here and there, and knelt down before Arthur. A storm raged in his eyes, a hurricane of fear and relief that combated even the torrent around them.

Arthur clasped Francis’ outstretched hand in both of his own; Francis returned the gesture with his other hand. “You bloody idiot, you should have just gone home and waited in the cottage,” he scolded, though his voice betrayed how glad he was that he hadn’t.

Francis moved his lips, but Arthur couldn’t hear anything over the rain and thunder. Seeing his look of confused concern, he freed one hand to point at his throat and shake his head.

“You threw out your voice, huh?” Francis nodded. “And I threw out an ankle. Great, just splendid.” He shifted onto one knee, grimacing at the pressure on his leg. “Help me up, please.”

Francis complied, pulling him up and supporting him behind his back. Arthur leaned forward onto him to steady himself, unwilling to care about the proximity or his weight. Luckily, Francis avoided stumbling backwards, instead resting his chin on Arthur’s shoulder while he got over the sprain and vertigo. “Are you ok?” he whispered.

Arthur took a few more breaths before nodding. “There’s a cave down this hill. That’s where I was going before that tree root had other ideas.”

Francis moved to his side, slipping his arm down from his back to his waist. Arthur draped his over Francis’s shoulders. “I warn you, I’m little more than deadweight right now.”

He thought he heard a very faint, “As opposed to normally?” And if he wasn’t afraid of being dropped, he would have shoved Francis. Francis’ shoulders silently shook with laughter at the glare Arthur was giving him, forced to squint due to the water dripping from his bangs.

They stumbled into the shallow cavern, feeling all the more soaked now that they were out of the rain. Francis shivered from the sudden change, and Arthur peeled his own jacket off before remembering that it would do nothing to help.

“Stay there; it looks like there are some dry pieces of wood over there,” he instructed, but one step forward had him wincing and Francis frowning deeply.

“I can take care of it;” he rasped, “you sit down and rest,” and with the dull pain in his ankle Arthur didn’t protest.

The fire Francis built was small, most of the available wood having gotten wet to some extent. Any warmth was good warmth, though, and they huddled close to it in an attempt to dry up and avoid the inevitable pneumonia coming their way.

Francis maneuvered Arthur’s injured leg so that it rested over his own, giving Arthur no choice but to twist into the other’s side. “Can you hear me?”

Arthur looked up from the flames at Francis’ stony gaze. “Just barely.”

He felt Francis’ hum more than he heard it, as the other pulled Arthur closer with one arm and rested his head next to Arthur’s own. At any other time, he would have complained about the situation, but he had to admit that the blush that ran down his entire upper body was doing wonders to warm him up.

They sat like that for a while, Francis holding onto Arthur and Arthur’s furnace-like flush giving off more heat than the fire. The rain continued pouring beyond the cave, echoing against the walls but muffled all the same. It was loud enough to cover up the crackling wood, but not so loud that Arthur’s own breathing didn’t ring far too clearly in his ears.

“Did you really want me to have gone home without you?” Francis finally asked, breaking the silence.

“Yes,” Arthur replied, simply but hesitantly. “No? Maybe?”

Francis sighed. “Arthur.”

“I’m glad to be with you; don’t get me wrong. I’m glad to be with you and not alone out there.” He took a deep breath, catching the faint scent of salt that had never truly left Francis’ skin. “But I would have taken your safety over my own in a heartbeat.”

He thought he heard Francis’ breath hitch, but he didn’t dare to look at him to confirm it. Even though Arthur felt his mouth open and close against his temple, Francis didn’t reply for a long while.

“I wouldn’t have blamed you for leaving me there, you know,” Arthur added softly. “It would have only been fair.”

“To do what, abandon you?”

“To get payback.”

Arthur risked a sideways glance at Francis, and was met with eyes far closer than he had anticipated. He let out a small yelp, which Francis allowed to let him chuckle but didn’t allow to distract him.

“I think any payback needed has been more than dished out by now,” Francis mused. “Is it not my fault we are in the woods in the first place?”

“It’s mine that you’re here at all.”

“And yet you are not the one who caught me. I don’t dare to wonder what those brutish sailors had in mind.”

“Knowing them, whatever would have paid best.”

Francis allowed his fingers to rub comforting circles into Arthur’s side, a gesture that couldn’t be misinterpreted no matter how he tried to twist it. He felt his nerves settling, anxiety subsiding enough to ask the one question that had truly been on his mind. He had gotten too close to never being able to say it to risk that again. “Have you really forgiven me?”

Francis pressed a soft kiss against the side of his head. “I did a long time ago.”

“But--”

“Arthur,” Francis scolded. “Do you remember the first time we went to Southampton? The flowers I left on the table?”

Arthur twisted further to look at him. “Yes?”

“Ever since then. When I saw how afraid you were at the thought of losing me, I think I finally understood that you didn’t see me as a test subject.” He placed his hand under Arthur’s chin, holding his gaze in place. “That you were dense, but not malicious.” Arthur blinked rapidly, a futile attempt to keep tears from springing. “And above all, that you cared more than you would have liked to admit.”

“I,” the Brit wiped his eyes with his damp sleeve, “I don’t ‘care more than I want to admit’ or any nonsense like that. Let, let go of me you damn fish.”

Francis puffed out his cheeks slightly, but obliged and dropped his hand. “How much do you care, then, Arthur? Forgive me for being blunt, but I am getting tired of guessing.”

Arthur grumbled, hiding his face in Francis’ neck. “I suppose there’s no point in beating around the bush any further, is there?” Francis shook his head. “I’m incredibly fond of you, alright? When I think of living in the middle of nowhere in the woods, fishing for a living and never going home again, I hate it.” He felt Francis tense, so he quickly clarified, “But when I think of doing all that with you, it becomes bearable. And if it’s alright with you, I’d like to keep it up indefinitely.”

Francis softly laughed. “So you’re saying you love me?”

“I never said that.”

It was probably the worst lie he had ever told, and he knew, and Francis knew.

“Well,” he coughed. “What do you say? To, um,” he tapped his fingers on his own thigh, “all that, I mean.”

Francis laughed again, pulling Arthur’s bright red face away from him so that he could admire it properly before he softly pressed their lips together.

He tasted like salt too, Arthur thought, the only coherent one that was able to form around the completely overwhelming presence of Francis that surrounded him in that moment.

And a moment it was; before his eyes even got a chance to flutter shut, Francis pulled away, leaving Arthur to chase after him and Francis to hold him at bay with a grin.

“I think I could get used to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it!
> 
> Huge thanks again to Alyx for providing the crucial plot ideas and being so patient with my sporadic productivity.

**Author's Note:**

> This work was part of the Hetabang 2020 Project!
> 
> A huge thanks to everyone involved, especially my fellow hosts/mods for putting it together, and my partner, @magari_jouska on instagram, for collaborating with me the whole time. I'll post a proper link to her side of the work once its spot is finalized.


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